


Gloves

by green_violin_bow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Greg has a gift, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Magical Realism, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2017, Not exactly a Christmas gift, Past Family Issues, but sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-16 05:03:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13047048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/pseuds/green_violin_bow
Summary: Come out on a date with me. Drinks. GIt may be a short text, but he agonises over the wording. ‘Come out for a drink with me’ – too open to interpretation. If he’s learned one thing about Mycroft Holmes, it’s that he’ll make almost any assumption other than that someone might actually be attracted to him.And anyway, they’ve been for drinks a hundred times: cordial but businesslike discussions of what to do about Sherlock, of how to approach a particular case or hurdle or setback. Thinly-veiled arguments over what right one or the other of them has to intervene in some disastrous move of Sherlock’s; over how best to help him when he relapses. Prickly, difficult times when the elder Holmes is absent and preoccupied; subdued occasions when Greg is so tired he can hardly think.In the forty-five minutes it takes Mycroft to reply, Greg hoovers his entire flat.





	Gloves

Greg Lestrade is three when he sees the worst Christmas of his mother’s life.

He never met him, but he’s seen pictures of his Grandad. Mum’s assured him, over and over again, that Grandad would have _loved_ him. Would have loved to meet him.

And he _feels_ – he feels his mother’s pain, her love, her desperate tattoo of thoughts – _don’t go, Dad, don’t leave me, us, not like this, I love you too much, what will we do, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go_ – and in his head, it becomes __his__ Dad, his parents, his world, his family –

He screams.

He cannot express what he has seen in words, so he screams, and cries, inconsolably.

He has a clear memory of his mother’s wide, surprised eyes as his Dad lifts him out of her arms. The ghost of solemn words in his Dad’s deep voice: “I’m sorry, love. I think – I think it’s happening to him, too.”

His parents wear gloves, after that, on Christmas Eve. It becomes a silly family thing, and they find the ugliest Christmas gloves they can, every year.

The December 23rd when Greg is twelve, his Dad tucks him up in bed, hesitates, then sits down next to him.

“Lad,” he says, gently, and sighs. He takes a breath. “This is going to sound –” he clears his throat. “I’m afraid you’ve – inherited something from me. A gift, sort of, but – well, I don’t think you’re going to think it’s much of one.”

His large hand rests gently in the centre of Greg’s chest, over the duvet. Greg luxuriates in the warm, calming contact. His Dad’s not a demonstrative man; kind and gentle, yes, but not physically expressive.

“You know we wear gloves every Christmas Eve, mm?”

Greg nods, and his Dad takes a deep breath. “Well – that’s –” he sighs. “It’s because of something I’ve passed on to you, a kind of – something you can do. Or – see. Every Christmas Eve.” His fingers twitch a little on the duvet. “Until now we’ve been able to control it. Wear gloves. Keep you with us. But as you get older, that won’t be possible and you’ll need to – my Dad never told me, see. Never talked about it. I had to find out for myself.”

“What, Dad?” asks Greg, a little impatiently.

“It’s –” Greg’s Dad sighs, and his shoulders slump slightly. “If you touch someone else on Christmas Eve, you’ll see their past. Other Christmas Eves they’ve been through. Their memories.”

Greg blinks, and wonders if his Dad’s gone mental. “Dad, that’s –”

“I know, lad. I’m not making it up, I promise.”

“But –”

“Tomorrow, Greg. We’ll – you and I. We’ll try it out together. But it’s – difficult. When you’re young. There’re a lot of things in people’s pasts you shouldn’t be seeing.” He clears his throat. “You don’t just – see it. You’ll feel what they felt. It can be –” he hesitates. “It can be too much, lad.”

By Greg’s fourteenth Christmas Eve, his Dad is dead.

*

[22:06] ****Come out on a date with me. Drinks. G****

It may be a short text, but he agonises over the wording. ‘Come out for a drink with me’ – too open to interpretation. If he’s learned one thing about Mycroft Holmes, it’s that he’ll make almost any assumption other than that someone might actually be _attracted_ to him.

And anyway, they’ve been for drinks a hundred times: cordial but businesslike discussions of what to do about Sherlock, of how to approach a particular case or hurdle or setback. Thinly-veiled arguments over what right one or the other of them has to intervene in some disastrous move of Sherlock’s; over how best to help him when he relapses. Prickly, difficult times when the elder Holmes is absent and preoccupied _ _;__ subdued occasions when Greg is so tired he can hardly think.

In the forty-five minutes it takes Mycroft to reply, Greg hoovers his entire flat.

Their first meeting; years of Sherlock’s relapses and uncontrolled behaviour. Watching Mycroft, too many times to count, motionless and silent at his brother’s bedside.

The _something_  that almost happened in Dartmoor, but didn’t, because Greg’s wife wanted them to try again.

And that was a mistake, because then came the end of _all that,_  and – a confusingly sharp thread of pain amid the dull ache of that time – the realisation that in losing Steph, and losing Sherlock, he’d accidentally lost Mycroft Holmes, too.

They didn’t meet while Sherlock was dead.

The resumption of his meetings with Mycroft marked the start of a slow, guilty process of comprehension, for Greg. Understanding that the eye he’d always had for Mycroft’s sharp suits and snooty air wasn’t just – well, that. That his admiration for the man had grown, over the years, until he’d started looking forward to their roughly-monthly meetings with eager anticipation.

In forty-five minutes, he has time to run through almost every possible scenario, every fear. The only reason he has to hope that Mycroft might respond positively is that their meetings, ostensibly still about Sherlock, are arguably unnecessary nowadays. After Sherlock and John finally pulled their fingers out and decided to just bloody _talk,_ Greg can’t imagine Sherlock going back. And it’s clear that Mycroft feels surer of his brother’s safety, too; in their last four meetings, Greg has got him to talk more about other things, about himself, than he has in all the years they’ve known one another.

Greg would even dare, nowadays, to describe them tentatively as ‘friends’.

There’ve been a couple of occasions where he thought maybe Mycroft’s eyes lingered just a moment on his; where a minute pause might indicate confusion or embarrassment in anyone else.

 _Not exactly conclusive. And from that you thought he’d want to go out with you? Deluded bastard._  He lifts the sofa at the corner, and pushes the head of the hoover underneath. He’d like to pretend that he’s not been casting anxious glances at his phone on the coffee table every ten seconds, but to do so would be an obvious lie.

When it does finally light up, he stands for half a minute with the hoover on the same patch of carpet.

_God. Right. Well this is it then._

With a decent impression of calm, he turns off the hoover and sits on the sofa. He leans forward, picks up his phone, and lets its weight sit in his palm for a few moments.

_Come on. Coward._

[22:53] ****Where and when did you have in mind for this ‘date’, Lestrade? MH****

Greg blinks, and rereads it. He grins, then chuckles and slumps back against the sofa cushions. Heaving a sigh of relief, he scrubs a hand over his face, up into his hair. _Bloody hell. Bloody hell. Christ. Fuck. Yes._

[22:55] ****Not a ‘date’, Mycroft, a date. Us two. On one. That place in Covent Garden we went to last time? I liked it there. When can you do? I’m free from the evening of the 22nd. Actually got Christmas off this year! And when did you last call me Lestrade? Come off it. G****

[22:57] ****I fear I shall only be free after 7pm on Sunday 24th. MH****

 _Christmas Eve? Christ._ Probably not the best idea. But then – realistically – how much touching would they be doing, on a first date? And especially in public. Mycroft Holmes and public displays of affection? Hardly.

[22:58] ****Christmas Eve it is then, if you’re happy with that. You not going straight to your parents’? G****

[23:02] ****I shall drive there early on Christmas morning. MH****

Greg wonders if he means _actually_ drive there, or be driven. He’s never seen Mycroft driving, but something about the idea is terribly appealing. _God. What if he wants to – if we – and I can’t _–__

He shakes his head slightly. _Don’t flatter yourself. As if Mycroft Holmes is going to be falling over himself to tear your clothes off on your first date._

[23:05] ****And your plans for Christmas day? MH****

[23:06] ****Not going anywhere – just nice to have a day off for once :) I’ll cook everything I like for lunch. G****

[23:07] ****Sounds ideal. MH****

Greg grins.

[23:08] ****Not excited about lunch with Sherlock? G****

[23:10] ****Perhaps if I understood this language of punctuation-mark representations of faces, there would be an adequate one to express my sentiments. MH****

Greg laughs. He can just __see__ Mycroft’s deadpan expression. It took him a long time to appreciate Mycroft’s particular brand of self-aware humour, but once he did –

[23:11] ****:/  G****

[23:12] ****Quite accurate, indeed. MH****

[23:14] ****John and Rosie’ll be there? G****

[23:15] ****Yes. Which will no doubt alleviate the situation. MH****

Greg smiles, fondly. Rosie’s adoration of Mycroft still annoys Sherlock.

[23:17] ****Glad to know there’s some hope on the horizon of Christmas, anyway. You won’t mind me wearing my Christmas jumper to our date? G****

[23:20] ****I should prefer the charcoal grey one, with the cream shirt. MH****

Greg’s eyebrows lift, as his stomach flips with surprise and arousal. _Well – that’s –_

[23:22] ****Your wish is my command, as always, Mycroft. G****

[23:24] ****And you? Do you wish me to arrive at this occasion wearing items of novelty knitwear? MH****

 _He still can’t bring himself to type ‘date’,_ thinks Greg, with a slight smile. _Silly man._

[23:25] ****Well, of course, but on the whole I’d probably prefer the navy suit with the burgundy pocket square. G****

[23:27] ****Most festive. MH****

[23:28] ****My wish is your command, then? G****

[23:30] ****In your experience, is that how things have so far developed between us, Detective Inspector? MH****

[23:32] ****Not so far, but I can live in hope, right? G****

Greg winces when he looks at the message he’s just sent. _Bit much, maybe?_ The flirty tone had carried him on. He bites his lip and wonders whether to add something tamer, more reassuring –

[23:33] ****I understand that Christmas is a time for miracles. MH****

Greg’s quick intake of breath is audible in his quiet living room. His stomach tightens with arousal.

[23:34] ****Well I’m looking forward to it more than ever now. G****

[23:37] ****I too. I fear that I must join a call now. MH****

[23:38] ****Christ, at this time? Good luck with that. Speak soon. G****

[23:40] ****Goodnight, Greg. MH****

_Mycroft – Mycroft Holmes just agreed to go on a date with me._

_Fucking hell._

_Yes._

Greg can’t stop grinning as he gets ready for bed.

*

To be honest, Greg feels like a bit of a prat wearing gloves. It may be Christmas Eve, but the weather’s not exactly freezing. It’s probably just chilly enough to get away with it. He buries his hands in his coat pockets and resists the temptation to run them nervously through his hair.

He’s a few minutes early, but he darts glances up and down the street, all the same. _What if he just doesn’t turn up? Don’t stand me up, Mycroft. Please. It’s taken us a long fucking time to get here._

He’d almost gone into the Yard, earlier, he’d been so nervous. Anything just to pass the time. In the end, he’d cleaned his entire flat from top to bottom instead, with urgent, jittery energy. _Be honest. You were thinking about tonight, a bit. What if_ –

Greg shuffles his feet and clears his throat slightly. _Clean sheets, anyway. Nice to have clean sheets. For Christmas. Yeah._

“Good evening, Greg.”

Greg looks up quickly, heart turning in his chest as Mycroft’s dark grey eyes meet his own. Of course he’d appeared while Greg wasn’t concentrating.

_Navy suit. Long, tailored dark grey coat. Gloves, thank God._

_Christ. He looks good._

Mycroft does not offer his hand – _needn’t have worried_ – and maybe that’s when it really sinks in: _we’re on a date._ Every one of their meetings in the past has begun with a brief, silent handshake; businesslike, an agreement of terms.

This time, Mycroft’s hand remains at his side, and his tall, stiff-backed bearing makes Greg suddenly and painfully aware of how nervous he is.

He knows, from comments that both Holmes brothers have dropped over the years, that Mycroft does not do _this._ Dating. People, really, at all. It’s what gave Greg the courage to ask in the first place, because if Mycroft was prepared to keep meeting him after the strict necessity was over, then perhaps…

And now it’s what carries him forward, because it may have been a while, but he can do this, and he can make this easier for Mycroft. So he will.

“Hiya, Mycroft,” he smiles, trying to put as much warmth and confidence into his words as possible. _Kiss his cheek? No. He wouldn’t want that, in public. I don’t think, anyway._ “Shall we go in? ’S’chilly.”

“Certainly.”

Greg does not miss Mycroft’s rather surprised, fleeting glance when he holds the door open for him.

The staff seem to know Mycroft by sight; they are quickly seated at the same quiet booth they occupied last time, even though the bar is packed with pre-Christmas drinkers.

When Greg returns from the bar, Mycroft is sitting, very straight-backed, without his coat. Greg puts the drinks down on the table and sheds his own layers, including, reluctantly, his gloves.

Mycroft’s face is blank, but he raises his glass in return when Greg says “cheers.”

They drink. Greg smiles at Mycroft. “That alright?” he asks, nodding to Mycroft’s whisky. “I just got you your usual.”

Mycroft inclines his head in a nod. “Quite right, thank you.”

“You were at work today, yeah?”

“Until I came here.”

Greg grimaces sympathetically. “The price of a day off.”

Mycroft tips his head, a half-shrug. “Indeed.” He takes a sip of whisky. “It seems you have managed several days’ leave.”

“I’ve worked Christmas for years,” says Greg, trying to keep the suggestion of _why not? No marriage, no kids,_ out of his voice. “Think they thought I deserved a break, this time round.”

Mycroft nods. “Well, I envy you your quiet Christmas.”

 _Not so sure I envy myself it, to be honest,_ thinks Greg. He smiles, though. “You’ll all have a good time, with Rosie there.”

Mycroft presses his lips together, but he cannot quite suppress the warmth in his eyes. “You are right. My parents are most taken with her.”

“And if Sherlock gets too annoying, you can just play pirates with her.”

Mycroft’s mouth turns up at one corner. “I have no wish to provoke my brother, Gregory.”

_Gregory. No-one calls me…_

_Christ._

_You can call me that, if you want._

“You staying there? Or coming back to London?”

“I shall be driving back in the evening. Duty calls on Tuesday, I am afraid.”

“Boxing Day? You know that’s a bank holiday, right?”

Mycroft gives a quick, wry smile. “Unfortunately that is unlikely to make a difference.”

Greg tuts and rolls his eyes. “You work too hard.”

“You should hardly be lecturing me on working hours, Detective Inspector.”

Greg grins and gives a guilty shrug. “Yeah, alright.” He gulps his beer. “So what does a typical Holmes family Christmas look like, then?” he asks, with a smile. “D’you all – I dunno, watch the Queen’s speech and Doctor Who together? Or has Sherlock usually caused a family argument by then?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, slightly. “It does tend to depend on Sherlock’s willingness to cooperate,” he sighs. “But with Rosie present, I am sure that all will go smoothly. Especially as, this year, she is likely to be more aware of what is happening.”

Greg smiles. “Favourite Christmas film?” he asks.

Mycroft looks down into his whisky, then up through his eyelashes. “You can probably guess,” he says, one eyebrow raised.

For some reason, Greg’s stomach twists with need. He grins. _“It’s a Wonderful Life,”_ he says, without hesitation. He holds up a hand. “Or – _A Christmas Carol._  The black and white one.”

Mycroft smiles wryly. “Correct on both counts. You could also have said _Holiday Inn.”_

Greg grins. “Go on then. What about me?”

Mycroft presses his lips together. _“Lethal Weapon.”_

Greg looks at him over the rim of his glass, and watches the slight flicker of amusement in Mycroft’s dark grey eyes. “Ha ha.”

Mycroft blanks his face. _“Die Hard.”_

Greg rolls his eyes. “Thank you –”

_“Die Hard 2?”_

“Bastard,” laughs Greg.

 _“The Muppet Christmas Carol_  –”

“You fucker!”

Mycroft can’t help it. There’s a smile hovering at the corners of his lips, now, and his dark grey eyes are lively with amusement. _“Miracle on 34th Street,”_ he says, quietly, and Greg does a double-take.

“Yes,” he says. “But I love _It’s a Wonderful Life_ too.”

Mycroft smiles shyly into his whisky.

Greg finishes his beer. “Can I get you another?” he asks, gesturing to Mycroft’s glass.

“I should –” says Mycroft, stiffly, making as though to get up. The return to awkwardness is abrupt, and Greg mourns it.

“Nah, honestly, I’ll get it,” he says, smiling, and without thinking, he brushes the fingers of his left hand across the back of Mycroft’s.

*

_The fear is sickening. It turns his stomach, makes him shaky. He can feel his fingernails biting into his palms, and he’s suddenly aware that it’s not just fear, that he’s angry, too –_

_“Sherlock.” His voice is high, and cold, and he doesn’t mean to sound so detached, but the most important thing, the absolutely crucial thing, is to get his brother to focus. What has he taken?_

_“Where is the list?” He encircles his brother’s bony wrist easily with his fingers. “Sherlock.” His anger is evident in his voice, now, and he scares himself, but fury and terror and disgust mingle in him, at the bodily stench of his vomit-stained younger brother, at the way his eyes roll in his head, at his trembling, triumphant rictus grin – look at me, My, look at the way I tear myself apart –_

_The deep breath he takes only draws in more of the stomach-churning odours; the filthy flat, the dirty mattress on which his brother sweats and shakes. It is enough, though, to get his voice under control._

_“Sherlock,” he tries, in a calm, soothing tone. “I know you made a list for me. Can you show me where it is?”_

_And this time, his brother stirs, and mutters, and reaches under his rank, stained pillow; a scrap of paper between shaking fingers._

_He takes it, with a heart-leap of relief that threatens to make him dizzy._

_“Alright. Thank you, Sherlock. It will not be long, now.”_

_What won’t be long? How will any of this be alright?_

_Nothing seems to work._

*

Greg turns away, stifling his gasp of horror. His stomach churns as he waits in the queue at the bar, letting others push in front of him.

He takes a long breath in, closing his eyes. _You’re not there. You’re here._

Christ. It’s been a long time since Sherlock’s last relapse, and Greg had never seen where he’d lived, before Baker Street. Once, Sherlock had gone through withdrawal in Greg’s flat, refusing Mycroft’s help. That had been bad enough.

_This was a terrible idea. A date, on Christmas Eve. Don’t touch him again, you fucking idiot._

When Greg returns to the table, Mycroft’s expression is guarded. He has finished his whisky.

Greg places the next in front of him, and gives him as wide a smile as he can manage. “Alright?”

Mycroft nods, once. “Thank you.” His long fingers wrap around the tumbler. “I must not continue to match you drink for drink, given the disparity in alcohol content.”

Greg smiles. “As a police officer, I should also remind you that you’re driving in the morning.”

Mycroft raises one eyebrow. “Noted, thank you.”

 _Driving himself, then. God._ “Shame you can’t sleep in, even on Christmas.” Immediately, he can feel himself turn red, and regrets his choice of words.

Mycroft’s cheeks are perhaps a little pink, too, but his voice is calm. “I am not sure I could ‘sleep in’, even if I tried,” he says, gaze fixed on his whisky. “It has been too long.”

“Ugh,” groans Greg. “I love a good lie-in.” He gulps his beer. “Sunday’s my day for doing absolutely bugger all. And that includes sleeping for hours in the morning. Or maybe a nap.” He grins at the slightly scandalised expression on Mycroft’s face. “Sometimes _both.”_ He laughs as Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

“I must admit,” says Mycroft, “that occasionally on Sundays I work at home, rather than in the office.”

“Ooh, you devil,” grins Greg, and Mycroft presses his lips together to suppress a small smile. “You can always come and work at mine on Sundays, if you want.”

Mycroft’s gaze flicks up to his for a moment. “I fail to see the point, Gregory. It seems you would be asleep.”

 _You can join me,_  thinks Greg. _Can’t promise we’d get much sleep though._ He doesn’t say it, but it may have written itself on his face anyway, because Mycroft actually _blushes_ and looks down into his whisky.

 _Oh dear god._ Greg’s heart turns slowly in his chest. _This man._ “I mostly just potter around doing chores on Sundays,” he says, calmly. “Go for a run sometimes, do the washing. Get some shopping in, just in case I do make it home for dinner any night of the week.” He rolls his eyes. “I like making a roast on Sunday, when I actually have time to cook, for once.”

“You enjoy cooking?” asks Mycroft, eyelashes still lowered.

“Yeah, yeah, when I get time. Not that often. D’you cook?”

“I – cannot claim any particular proficiency,” says Mycroft, guardedly. “I eat so few meals at home –”

“Tell me about it,” sighs Greg. “Honestly, if I had a quid for every soggy sandwich at my desk, or the cups of coffee grabbed at some scene instead of anything to eat...well, I’d have more money than I do now.”

Mycroft looks at him softly, obliquely. His posture has relaxed, a little. “You should take better care of yourself, Gregory.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m getting old,” sighs Greg, smiling.

 _“Not_ my intended message.”

“I know,” smiles Greg, gently. He reaches out for the food menu. “Speaking of, d’you want to get some food?” He pushes it towards Mycroft just as the other man is reaching for his whisky, and their hands brush –

*

_Christmas Eve, always Christmas Eve, and the Holmes family open their Christmas stockings the night before, it seems –_

_A chaos of small presents and wrapping paper, books and toys, and his feet are warm in brand-new slippers; the fire crackles, and the Christmas tree is magnificent, six foot at least._

_The boys open one stocking present at a time each, a means of slowing down Sherlock’s feverish rush through the parcels._

_And at the bottom, of course, the traditional: he upends the stocking at the same time Sherlock does, and into his lap fall two clementines and a walnut. Surprised, he glances up, and there on Sherlock’s little legs, alongside the other things, gleam some chocolate coins._

_“Why the walnut?” asks Sherlock, curiously, and their parents laugh._

_“I don’t know,” says Father. “It’s just tradition. My parents did it too.”_

_“I need the nutcracker,” says Sherlock._

_“I’ll do that for you,” says Mummy, firmly, whisking the sharp instrument away from his questing hand._

_Mycroft shrinks into himself. No chocolate, because – because – he glances down at his chubby legs, and draws them up close to his chest, making himself small._

_Sherlock – curly-haired, wide-eyed, cherubic, tiny Sherlock – offers him a chocolate coin. Mycroft shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Thank you,” he adds, coldly, catching Mummy’s glance._

*

Greg’s fingers press hard against the table, the grain of the wood a tie to the present. The swooping sense of shame clings to him, though, makes him want to hunch and hide. For a moment to collect himself, he puts his hand over his eyes.

_Christ on a fucking bike. Who denies a kid chocolate at Christmas? And gives it to his brother right in front of him? Jesus._

“Gregory?”

Greg blinks and opens his eyes, then takes his hand away from them. “Sorry,” he says, with an attempt at a smile. “I – bit of a headache, actually.”

It’s a lame excuse, and he’s aware it sounds like a lie. _It is, but I’m not trying to – God. This is ridiculous._

Mycroft is looking down at the table. “It is not a problem if you need to –”

“No,” interrupts Greg, urgently. “No, Mycroft – I’m not –” he puts his hand carefully on Mycroft’s sleeve, and squeezes his arm. “Let’s get some food. What d’you fancy?”

“Oh, I – ate at the office –” says Mycroft, uncomfortably.

 _Bullshit,_ thinks Greg. “Oh, go on,” he says, gently. “Keep me company.”

“Very well,” says Mycroft gracefully. “But I shall order this time.”

“Oh, you don’t have to –”

“I insist.”

Greg sits back and smiles at Mycroft. “Alright. Scampi and chips then, please.”

“Another –?” Mycroft reaches out to turn Greg’s glass to see the logo, and Greg is not in time to withdraw his fingers –

*

_The fear-sickness sweeps through him again, exhaustion dragging at his very bones until the world seems warped by waves of undulating tiredness. It’s dark, so dark only the accustomedness of days allows him to pick out dim shades of light and shape in the obscurity._

_Adrenaline sharpens his senses._

_Far off, someone is shouting in Russian. “Bring him here! Bring him!”_

_Terror tightens in his stomach. He has not eaten for days, but hunger torments him only in the silent hours – night-time, presumably, although how would one know, in here – when his torturers are gone._

_He has had just enough water to keep him conscious, and alive. So far, it appears to have been clean, as he has not become ill._

_He was forced to swallow some water, during the last session. He exerts all the self-control he has left to ignore thoughts of the sessions, to forget. He concentrates on the splintering, excruciating pain in his knees, in his shoulders, in his bloodless arms, tied above his head._

_Pain is clean, a shining blade on which to fix one’s thoughts, better than dwelling in the twilight world of the things said, the things demanded during each session._

_In training, they’d suggested trying to block out the pain; trying to draw one’s mind away from it. It had never worked for Mycroft. Instead he used the pain, lived in it, became it. To be pain itself made him clean and strong and mindless; he had no thoughts, no information to give._

_Something feels very wrong in his chest. He cannot draw breath properly. Broken ribs, he thinks, dispassionately. He hopes that they will not puncture his lungs. That would require medical attention, and he has no idea whether the distress message reached his contact._

_In the distance, a door slams, and he clamps down on the urge to cry, to scream for help._

_No help is coming._

*

Greg gasps, a hand on his ribs, eyes pressed shut; he fights the need to scream. Mycroft has gone to the bar. He puts both hands over his face, then uses his dark phone screen as a mirror. He is pale, eyes winced tight with the ghost of a pain he had never felt himself.

 _Holy shit. When was that?_ He had no idea Mycroft undertook such work. Nothing in the memory had contained a clue about how long ago it had been. _Years ago, surely?_

Treacherously, his brain recalls how he and Mycroft had not met while Sherlock was away, and even once Sherlock returned, it had been several months – February – until they had resumed their meetings. Greg had assumed it was due to his betrayal of Sherlock, but perhaps... He winces, thinking about the probable extent of Mycroft’s injuries.

He wants to undo every one of Mycroft’s shirt buttons, and place his hand where he had felt the pain in the memory; to check, somehow, to look for marks, even though that’s stupid because he’s broken a rib himself, before, and it didn’t leave a scar –

 _Was he looking for Sherlock?_ He’d heard John say, before, that Mycroft brought Sherlock home, but he’d assumed – an airlift of some kind, a diplomatic operation, a well-placed word in the right politician’s ear, not –

He sighs and leans his elbows on the table, puts his hands over his eyes.

“Your headache is worsening?” asks Mycroft, and Greg jerks guiltily upright.

He shakes his head. “No, it’s not – I’m –” he sighs. “Honestly, I’m fine.” He smiles up at Mycroft. “Really. I know this is – weird, but –” he shrugs, unsure what else he can say. “What did you order?”

“Pitta bread, hummus and salad,” says Mycroft, sliding onto the bench next to him. “And I have joined you in a beer, since I risk drunken stupor if we continue drinking at the same rate.”

Greg grins. “More dangerous to switch. Grape and grain, and all that.”

Mycroft gives a small smile. “I fear almost anything is dangerous. I drink so little nowadays.”

Greg raises his eyebrows. “I thought you’d be out getting pissed with politicians all the time. At posh events, and all that.”

“You have a much inflated view of the glamour of my job.”

Greg’s hand curves protectively around the ribs of his left side, over his heart. “Yeah, maybe,” he says, fighting to keep his voice light. “You mean you _don’t_  spend every night subtly threatening politicians over lobster and champagne?”

Mycroft smirks. “I fear not.”

“Shit,” grins Greg. “I thought I was the only one falling asleep at my desk too late at night after half a cup of crap coffee.”

“I certainly do not allow bad coffee.”

“Ah well, there’s the difference between us.” Greg smiles. “The Yard _only_ has horrible coffee. You have to walk six hundred metres down the road to the Costa, ignoring the Starbucks on the way because what they serve tastes like dishwater. As if I’ve got time to go out for coffee every few hours.”

Mycroft tips his head to one side. “I suspect that you are too considerate a boss to make it part of your sergeant’s duties.”

Greg meets his gaze. “Yeah, not really my thing, getting the team to bring me stuff.”

Mycroft nods, once. They share a tentative smile.

“Not that I’d say no to an assistant like Anthea if they offered me one,” says Greg, ruefully.

Mycroft looks down into his beer. “She is a blessing.”

“What beer did you go for?” asks Greg. “Looks like an ale. Dark.”

“Stout,” says Mycroft, turning the glass and pushing it slightly towards Greg. “Try it, if you wish.”

Greg takes a sip. “Mmm, good,” he says, licking his lips. “I might switch to that, next.”

Mycroft groans slightly. “Next?”

“We don’t have to keep drinking,” chuckles Greg. “Not trying to get you drunk. Promise.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows flicker up, slightly, and his cheeks tinge pink; he looks as if he wants to say something, but presses his lips together instead. He’s smiling, though, softly, and Greg’s stomach flips. _God._

The food arrives, into the moment of quiet.

“Didn’t know you drink beer,” says Greg, as the waitress turns to go. “Don’t think you have, before, when we’ve met.”

Mycroft shakes his head slightly. “I do not, as a matter of course. I do not particularly like light beers. Dark ales would be my preference, but since I drink little and rarely, I usually choose whisky.”

Greg nods. “With you on the _Weissbier._  Not my favourite.” He takes a sip and puts his glass down. “Hope I’m not giving you the impression I’m out drinking all the time. Just have a few with the team from work occasionally.”

Mycroft gives a half-smile. “I had not assumed, Gregory.”

Greg spears a chip with his fork and dips it in tartare sauce. “I like you calling me that.”

Mycroft blinks. “I –” he hesitates.

Greg shakes his head. “No-one else does. I like it.”

Mycroft presses his lips together. “You are sure?”

Greg smiles at him, gently. “Yeah. Sure.”

Mycroft’s gaze drops quickly to his plate. “Very well,” he murmurs. He tears off a small piece of pitta bread, and rolls it absently between his long, elegant fingers.

Greg tries hard not to concentrate on those fingers, because he’s pretty sure Mycroft’s caught him staring at them before, and he doesn’t want to look _weird._

“Gregory –” says Mycroft, then stops, and sighs. His gaze slides, assessing, to the other booths, to the proximity of others.

Greg glances around too. “We could finish up here, then go for a walk along the river?” he asks. “’S’cold, but not freezing.”

Mycroft clears his throat slightly. “Yes, that would be –” he gives Greg a grateful glance from under his eyelashes.

Greg smiles, and they eat in silence. Mycroft finishes an unacceptably small amount of his food, in Greg's opinion.

“Right,” says Greg, draining his pint. “Walk?”

Mycroft nods, and they start putting on layers. With relief, Greg draws on his gloves even before his coat. He holds the door of the bar open for Mycroft as they leave.

There are fairy lights in the trees all along the banks of the Thames. They stroll, slowly, and Greg thinks how strange it is to see Mycroft without his umbrella.

“Did you want to talk to me about something?” asks Greg, gently.

Mycroft looks away, across the river. _Some night off this is,_ thinks Greg. _We're practically looking into his office, probably._

“I –” Mycroft hesitates. “I am aware that I am hardly the most fascinating company, this evening,” he says, at last. “I must admit to some – trepidation. It has been a long time since I have done – anything like this –”

Greg huffs a wry laugh, and grabs Mycroft's arms. He pulls him to the side, near the railing. “Say 'date’,” he insists.

Mycroft's expression flows from surprise at being manhandled to mock exasperation. “Really, Gregory –”

“Say it!” laughs Greg.

“It has been a long time since I have been on a – _date._ With anyone,” says Mycroft, one eyebrow raised.

“Good. Fine. I don't care,” says Greg, looking earnestly up at Mycroft. “And – fuck.” He takes a deep breath, leaning back against the railing. “Why are you saying that, Mycroft? _I_ think you're fascinating. Always. That's why I asked you out.”

Mycroft's gaze drops immediately to his own shoes. “You have seemed – perhaps – a little _distrait_  –”

Greg grimaces. “Yeah, well, that's my fault, not yours.” _Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. This was the worst idea I've ever had._ His chest feels tight with suppressed panic. “Listen, I – I need to tell you something. And once I have, there’re basically a couple of different options for what'll happen, neither of ’em good.” He smiles, grimly.

Mycroft's grey eyes look black in the cold London night. His expression is shuttered.

_He thinks you're backing out on this. Him. Fuck._

Greg takes a deep breath. “Shit. Right. I – basically, you're either going to have me committed after I say this, or run so far in the opposite direction I won't see you for dust. But – I have to, because – because I've already seen – and if I don't say now, then you'll find out later and think I lied, when I didn't mean to, and – there isn't really a right answer, but I –”

“Gregory.” Mycroft's gloved hand touches his arm lightly. “Breathe. Please.”

Greg puts both hands over his face. Dread sinks, cold and heavy, in his stomach. “Oh, Myc,” he groans. “You're going to think I'm mental.”

“Tell me.” His voice is cool, commanding, determined. The police recruit in Greg obeys without demur.

“On Christmas Eve, I can see other people's memories. If we touch.”

The silence is a long one. At last, Greg finds the courage to look up into Mycroft's eyes. His heart squeezes painfully in his chest.

Mycroft opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again.

“I know it sounds completely fucking nuts, believe me, it's just – I know it's not normal –”

“Tell me what you saw.” His tone is blank.

 _Shit. I knew this would happen._ “It was an accident, Mycroft, I swear, I wasn't – I wasn't trying to pry –”

“Tell me, please.”

Hopelessly, Greg stares down at the pavement. “With Sherlock. When he was using. Some apartment, not Baker Street. Looked like a bad time. You couldn't find the list, but eventually he gave you it.” He winces, and looks away, down the river. “With your family, when you were younger. Opening Christmas stockings. He got chocolate money. You didn't.” He sighs. “Somewhere – dark. Russia, maybe. Fear and –” his voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “And torture. I think.” It takes everything he has, but he forces himself to look up into Mycroft's eyes.

They are remote, and dark. “Always Christmas Eve,” he says, at last.

Greg nods, miserably. “I'm so sorry,” he mutters. “I _swear_  it was an accident. Seeing those things.”

“I appreciate your candour,” says Mycroft, blankly.

Greg leans back against the railing, suddenly exhausted. _That's that then. He's not going to send me to a mental hospital, but he's just not interested now. I'm a fucking idiot._ “’M’sorry,” he says, tiredly. “I should never've suggested a date today. But – when you said yes –” he swallows a lump in his throat. “Seemed too good to be true,” he says, on a wry huff of laughter. “So. Couldn't wait.”

After a moment's silence, Greg turns away and leans his elbows on the cold metal railing. He blinks, hard, pushing back the tears blurring the fairy lights on the opposite bank.

When Mycroft leans on the railing next to him, the warmth of his upper arm makes Greg's heart leap.

“It was a difficult situation. It was honest of you to volunteer the information,” says Mycroft, quietly. His eyes are fixed on the opposite bank, too. Greg cannot speak, his throat tight. “Does it end at midnight?” asks Mycroft.

“Yes,” manages Greg.

“Then perhaps we could walk to my flat,” says Mycroft, tentatively. “I could make us some coffee. My coffee machine is quite adequate. I am fairly confident it would not be crap.”

Greg laughs, relief and disbelief fighting to break the bounds of his chest. Two tears spill solitary tracks down his face.

Mycroft's hand in its black leather glove finds his chin, and turns it towards him. With infinite care, he wipes the tears from Greg's cheeks. Reflections from the fairy lights across the water shine in his dark grey eyes.

“Myc –” Greg sighs, and stops, because his throat is full of _thank you, thank you_ – he takes a deep breath. “If I could, I'd kiss you.”

Mycroft's eyelashes sweep his cheeks, and he bites his bottom lip. “Gregory.” He looks up, suddenly, gaze direct. “Why _me?”_

Greg has the sense that this is how it has to be, with Mycroft Holmes. Put it all on the line, because he won’t imagine anything for himself that involves Greg just – _liking_ him.

He shrugs. “It's been you for a while.”

Mycroft blinks, several times. “But – we speak only about work – about Sherlock –”

Greg shakes his head. “That's not true. Not the last few months, anyway. And – you _know_ I've fancied you forever. Dartmoor?” he says, gently.

Mycroft looks quickly away, across the river. “Nothing happened.”

“I know. And maybe it wasn't – for you, I mean – but if it hadn't been for Steph – well. I…” he sighs. “I was a fucking idiot. And I wanted you more than I thought was possible.”

Mycroft watches him obliquely. “I too,” he says, finally.

Their gloved hands find one another on the railing, fingers winding together.

“It nearly fucking killed me, when Sherlock was away,” says Greg, on a gasp. “Not seeing you.”

Mycroft's eyes tighten. “I – could not.”

“’S’okay. I get it. I just need you to know.”

Mycroft nods, and they look at one another for a long, silent moment. The temptation to lean in, to kiss him, is almost overwhelming.

It’s been too long coming. Greg will not have their first kiss stolen by another memory.

“Was it then?” asks Greg. “The torture?”

Mycroft hesitates for a moment, but shakes his head. “No. Some time ago, I believe. The timing cannot be correct for Sherlock's...for then.”

Greg's stomach twists. “Do you do that, still?” he asks. His hand tightens in Mycroft's.

Mycroft shakes his head, firmly. “No.”

 _Promise me,_  thinks Greg, but he knows he hasn't the right. Instead he simply clings to Mycroft's hand.

“Shall we walk?” asks Mycroft.

“To yours?” asks Greg, in return.

“Yes. If…” Mycroft’s voice becomes less sure.

“Yeah. Yes,” says Greg, hurriedly. “Thank you.”

They look at one another, gathering the courage to let go.

At last, they pull away, and Greg shoves his hands into his coat pockets. Mycroft sets off along the river, the way they came.

“How far away?” asks Greg, as casually as he can.

“About a twenty-minute walk,” returns Mycroft. Greg is about to take his hand from his pocket to check his watch when Mycroft catches his eye and adds, “it is just past eleven o’clock.”

Greg laughs. The smile they share is shyly conspiratorial.

Mycroft hesitates, seemingly on the point of speaking; then, tentatively, he takes his hand out of his pocket and draws Greg's arm through his own.

Greg's heart squeezes, pounding. This is – closer than holding hands, somehow; a Victorian gentleman strolling through the London night with his intimate friend. He lets his side, his arm, curl into the warmth of Mycroft's body. For a moment, as they walk, he rests his cheek on Mycroft's shoulder.

At Mycroft's building, they part, and are nodded through security before taking the lift. Greg mourns the warmth, the closeness, the solid, reassuring physical _presence_ of Mycroft beside him.

Inside his flat, Mycroft takes and carefully hangs up Greg's coat, then his own. He draws off his own gloves, but makes no motion towards Greg's. Greg leaves them on.

“Which particular type of coffee would you prefer?” asks Mycroft.

Greg considers for a moment. “Actually – d’you have any tea?” He wants the comfort. He feels wrung out, and infinitely tired.

“Of course,” says Mycroft. His grey eyes find Greg’s. It feels a little like Sherlock's laser gaze, but Greg gives himself over to it, quietly and absolutely. “Please,” says Mycroft, ushering him to the kitchen.

At the tea cupboard, Greg chooses an Assam from a bewildering assortment. Without hesitation, Mycroft reaches down a teapot, and sets the kettle boiling.

The sight of Mycroft leaning against the kitchen counter in his beautiful three-piece suit is so incongruous that Greg wants to laugh, or cry, or – something. He is edgy with excess emotion, with need, with nerves and relief and grateful, brimming _thanks_  for Mycroft's acceptance, his kindness –

Mycroft's hand, carefully cupping Greg's elbow, startles him. The tiniest of movements, his fingers in the crook of Greg's arm; _come here._

Greg goes. He curls, careful not to find skin with any part of him, against Mycroft's chest.

Mycroft smells infinitely good. Greg wants to touch, to kiss the trail of freckles on his neck. He stays still, listening to the kettle boiling, allowing his breaths to rise and fall with Mycroft's. Tears run steadily down his face.

Mycroft's hands, on his back, are gentle and protective.

The kettle boils, and Greg turns away, hiding his face, wiping fiercely at his tears with sleeves pulled down over his hands.

Mycroft sets the teapot brewing, and crosses quietly to his coat, hanging by the door. When he returns, his black leather gloves are back on. He pulls Greg in, and his hand buries itself in Greg's hair.

“’M’sorry,” mumbles Greg, into his chest.

 _“Gregory,”_  reproaches Mycroft.

“Bet you didn't think you'd spend the night letting me snot up your suit,” half-laughs Greg, shakily.

He can hear the smile in Mycroft's voice. “You are an idiot, Gregory.”

“You sound like your brother,” mumbles Greg, grinning tearily against Mycroft's chest.

Mycroft sighs. “Regrettably he is occasionally a true judge of character.”

Greg snorts a laugh and pokes Mycroft in the side. “Bastard.”

Mycroft hisses, amused. “Undoubtedly, I fear.”

Greg lifts his head to look at him. _Thank you._

Mycroft shakes his head, slightly. “Tea,” he says, gently detaching himself.

As Mycroft pours the tea, Greg leans back against the counter, watching him; his elegance, his graceful, short movements.

Greg's heart hurts.

Mycroft carries their cups of tea to the sofa, and puts them down on the coffee table. He slips off his jacket and lays it carefully over the back of an armchair. When he sits, his attitude is immovably calm; Greg feels it as an ache in the space around his heart. Mycroft’s armour, his demeanour, is usually iron-plated: a defence, absolute, against everyone.

He is welcomed, quietly, against Mycroft’s side. They settle together, Greg’s head on Mycroft’s shoulder – careful not to touch – shoes pushed away, on the floor, legs tucked up beneath him. Mycroft’s arm wraps around him.

“We’ve not even kissed yet,” murmurs Greg, into the peace.

Mycroft tips his wrist. “Eighteen minutes and thirty-five seconds,” he says, and Greg huffs a laugh, stomach twisting with want.

He places his gloved hand carefully over the left side of Mycroft’s ribcage, splaying his fingers a little. “Were they broken?”

“Yes.”

“But you escaped without a punctured lung?”

“I was rescued, eventually.”

“Eventually,” mutters Greg, chest tight. His hand curves closer, pressed tight against Mycroft’s waistcoat. _Cold, bright pain in total darkness._ He almost gasps with the intensity of the sense memory. Mycroft observes him with dark grey eyes.

Greg moves, watching Mycroft’s face for signs of refusal. He straddles his lap, sits back, chaste, across his knees. They do not break eye contact as, slowly, he undoes button after button, waistcoat then shirt, tie looped apart and dropped across the back of the sofa. His hand, at last, over the place where pain had seared years before. _No scars._

Greg drops his head to Mycroft’s shoulder, and nuzzles his lips between the fabric of shirt and waistcoat. Gently, with infinite care, he bites; scrapes his teeth through the thin fabric at the meat of Mycroft’s shoulder. The crisp white cotton heats with his breath.

Mycroft gasps, and his hands, in their gloves, settle on Greg’s knees.

Greg pulls back. Mycroft's eyes are dark and full of fire.

“Fifteen minutes,” says Greg, watching Mycroft's lips. They curve in a small smile.

Greg runs his gloved finger along the line of Mycroft's jaw.

“You feel the memory,” says Mycroft. It's not a question. His eyes are grave.

Greg takes a breath. “Yes.”

Mycroft holds his breath a moment; he’s holding back a question. “Your wife must have known,” he says, at last.

Greg’s eyes slide away. “I worked.”

“Every Christmas Eve?”

Greg hesitates. “Yeah,” he says, reluctantly, at last.

“Before that –?” murmurs Mycroft.

“Avoided everyone on Christmas Eve,” says Greg, with a slightly awkward laugh. His eyes are fixed on Mycroft’s collar. He shifts sideways, off Mycroft, back onto the sofa. He pulls his legs to his chest.

“Including your family?”

Greg gives a quick shake of the head. “Nah. They – my Mum and Dad knew. Dad – it was his thing. I got it from him.”

_Just…don’t understand, Mycroft. That you’re one of three people who’ve ever known, that you’re the only one now, that Steph didn’t know, never knew, because I couldn’t – I couldn’t – trust her – ever, really, even before everything that happened –_

_Bit of a vain hope, really, asking Mycroft Holmes not to see the truth of a situation._

Greg keeps his gaze down, avoiding Mycroft’s eyes. “Wasn’t really fair on Steph,” he mutters.

Mycroft’s silence is understanding. Diplomatic. Greg risks a glance up, and finds sympathy in those dark grey eyes.

“I’m not – it’s not –” he bites his lip.

“I am not pitying you, Gregory,” says Mycroft, crisply. “Neither do I view this as a problem to be solved, or an interesting curiosity to be investigated.”

Greg gives a wry huff of amusement. “Yeah. Sorry.” He puts a gloved hand over Mycroft’s. “I – bit defensive, I think.”

“A natural reaction,” says Mycroft. His voice is carefully unemotional, and Greg feels almost breathlessly thankful.

“I’m – sorry this’s been the weirdest first date ever,” says Greg, trying a laugh.

Mycroft’s lips curl up at the corners, and he tips his wrist to look at his watch. “Merry Christmas, Gregory.”

Greg’s stomach twists, and he looks at his own watch. _00:02._  He blinks, and looks up at Mycroft.

The moment extends.

“Merry Christmas,” says Greg. His chest is tight, full, and he isn’t sure if he’s going to be able to make the words sound right to the end.

Mycroft’s lips part slightly, then bite together in a hesitation. Greg can see doubt in his eyes, and his stomach flips. _No – I’m _–__ he kneels on the sofa cushions and takes his gloves off, slowly. He tucks them together into a ball, and feels ludicrous as he catches himself doing it; _don’t play for time. We’ve had nothing but time, and now – now this is happening, and_ __–__ he takes a deep breath.

“Think I’m – a bit nervous, actually,” he mumbles, looking as bravely as he can at Mycroft.

Mycroft cannot conceal a catch of breath. “I, too,” he says, slowly, long fingers of his left hand running the neatly-pressed crease of his suit trousers. His gaze cuts away, down, to where his shirt front still lies open.

Slowly, Greg puts his hand on Mycroft’s chest, bracing himself to be enveloped by memory, even though he _knows_  the time has passed –

Nothing happens, and Mycroft can’t restrain his half-smile at the unwarranted solemnity, the weight of the breathless moment that wasn’t, in the end, and Greg’s laugh catches in his throat as a sob, eyelashes wet again as he finally, finally leans in and brushes his lips against Mycroft’s.

It’s all it takes for nothing, _nothing_ to be enough – Mycroft’s hands are in his hair and at his waist, pulling him in; it’s not even coordinated, they get close in a breathless press of body to body, and the only thing Greg registers is the kiss, slow and tearing, desperate, not stopping, _never_ stopping, only changing, and his hands are on Mycroft’s skin, _always,_  chest, shoulders, sides, neck, cheek; thumb stroking the line of his eyebrow as they bite, gasp, _kiss_ –

_At last. At last. At fucking last._

*

“Don’t go,” murmurs Greg, to the patch of softest skin behind Mycroft’s ear. Four in the morning, and they haven’t slept. _Stay here with me. I know it’s Christmas, and you’ve got your family, but God – if you go now – and I can’t explain that, can I, because it sounds mad, after one night, not even one night_ – “don’t go,” he whispers again.

“Gregory,” says Mycroft, fondly – 

 _Fondly? yes, I think so_ – “It’s okay, I know you can’t stay,” mutters Greg, brushing his lips through Mycroft’s hair. He feels caught between sleep and waking, limbs heavy with bone-deep sated calm.

“I do not have anything here suitable for Christmas lunch,” murmurs Mycroft.

Greg’s heart turns in his chest. _He’ll stay._ For a moment he struggles to breathe. “We’ll go to mine,” he whispers. “I’ve got everything there.”

In the pre-dawn grey, his hand sits lightly on the curve of Mycroft’s ribs.

Protective.


End file.
